


A Priceless Piece

by ScrollingKingfisher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13x11 coda, Angst, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, I made myself nauseous writing this, PTSD, Sam's Cage Trauma, Seriously guys it isn't pretty, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrollingKingfisher/pseuds/ScrollingKingfisher
Summary: “Five hundred thousand dollars! Five hundred thousand dollars for Sam Winchester’s heart!”Sam is captured for the monster auction. Some old memories make an appearance.





	A Priceless Piece

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the latest episode and. Well. This happened. I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> As always, big thanks to @theriverscribe for betaing this monstrosity!

Sam knows he isn’t the picture of either physical or emotional health at the minute. Hell, he hasn’t been for a long time. Not since, well, Hell. But in particular since Mary died, and Jack left, life has been… difficult.

 

He knows in theory he can run on four hours, but it makes his bones ache to drag himself out of bed when he gets the call from Donna. Eating, reading, travelling, caring… it all seems to take five times as much energy as usual.

 

The case seems to be a regular, human kidnapping at first, and Sam is dubious that their skill sets are going to be any use, especially when the real feds are already here. Sam’s never seen Donna like this before. She’s usually so… bouncy, but under that she apparently has a core of steel. Sam can admit that he’s glad it’s not him she’s shouting at in the interview room.

 

The fed seems impressed too. They’re getting results, closing in; they’re already heading for the diner when Dean calls, telling them to get their asses there already.

 

The diner is grimy and Sam is almost sure they’ve never visited it before. But nevertheless there’s a strange hint of memory about the place, the ghost of a thousand other grimy diners from when they were young clinging to it. He can almost see himself and Dean yawning and droop-eyed sat at the sticky tables, their dad eyeing the other customers over his coffee with one hand on his gun like he was daring them to make trouble.

 

Dean nods at him, beckons them over to the counter. The scrawny kid opens the laptop, a hungry look in his eyes. The video starts and Sam suddenly can’t focus on anything else. The screen sucks in his attention like a black hole.

 

The man’s tied down, terrified sounds leaking out past the makeshift gag. His eyes stare past the camera, locked onto something that Sam can’t see. Then a figure steps into view, holding something that glints sinister at the camera.

 

Sam feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. His stomach clenches. A whining whirr fills his ears, mixing with the man’s frantic sobs-

 

He shakes his head, blinks rapidly against the things in the corner of his eyes, and quickly reaches over to stop the video. He pulls back, not listening to the others talking around him, and concentrates on breathing like he’d taught himself. Slow and deep. In and out.

 

There’s a quick movement and a sharp slap and he jerks, anticipating the pain, his skin flayed off, his eyes gouged out. But the burning never comes, there’s just the boy pouting and rubbing his head. It was just Doug. Not Him. Just Doug.

 

He throws himself back into the investigation once the new auction appears. They only have an hour. He hisses at Dean that he can’t crack the encryption, because he might be good with technology but he’s not Charlie and he knows it.

 

He hands it over to the fed instead, then goes to find a quiet corner of the bar while they work their magic. Dean lets him go, a grim understanding passing between them when they make brief eye contact. He rubs a hand over his eyes, across his forehead. A girl is missing, about to be dismembered in a vile chop shop monster auction. He should be filled with drive, but instead he just feels strung out, his skin too tight and his insides slack and shaky.

 

He feels a hand on his arm and jumps, eyes springing open.

 

Donna’s looking at him with concern. “You don’t look like you’re doing so great, Sam. Are you still good to go?”

 

Sam can’t afford this now. He can’t tell her that it’s sometimes worse if the pain doesn’t come. That the anticipation leaves him hanging, helplessly dangling there and choking on the thoughts of what might happen.

 

Later. He can deal with this later.

 

(Never.)

 

He tries to smile at her. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

 

Donna looks at him with the sharpness she hides under her soft exterior and warm accent. The quirk of her mouth tells him that she can see right through his act. “The PTSD gets to ya sometimes, huh?”

 

Sam nods, jerky and reluctant. A little embarrassed that she’s having to take the time out to focus on him, of all people, when she should be rescuing her niece.

 

She claps him on the shoulder, steering him out into the fresh air. “I know a good therapist, Lord knows you both need it.”

 

She means well, and it’s kind of her, more than kind, but Sam slips the piece of paper she hands him into his pocket with no intention of dialing the number. He doesn’t need it. He’s fine.

 

(Because he knows that there are things broken in his soul that can’t be fixed.)

 

(Because you can’t undo in one human lifetime what it took a thousand to break.)

 

(But he’s fine.)

 

(He has to be.)

 

.o0o.

 

When he wakes up, it takes him a second or two to remember what happened. The dizziness of a head injury reminds him. The abandoned building. The not-a-fed knocking him out.

 

He’s strapped to another chair. He yanks, getting more desperate. The straps don’t ease up at all.

 

_“Well well, Sammy boy. Long time no see.”_

 

Sam stills, grinding to a halt. The man’s still talking, taking bids with what looks like disturbing relish, but nothing reaches Sam but muffled murmurs, like he’s underwater. Everything blurring away. Apart from the voice.

 

_“I’d been wondering how long you could hold out until you came running back into my arms.”_

 

_No_ , Sam wants to reply, _never, not ever again,_ but the words stick in his throat. A shadow is there in the corner of his eye, getting clearer every second. Meat hooks appear where they weren’t any before. The walls shimmer darkly, blood starting to trickle down from the roof, seeping from the ceiling tiles.

 

_“What do you say, Sam? What shall we do today? Shall we see how far your skin can stretch before it snaps? Shall we see what your insides look like on the outside? Oh yes, that sounds good to me.”_

 

_Not real,_ Sam chants to himself, _not real,_ but the longer he says it the more it sounds like a lie. He’s solid enough that Sam can see his smile now, wide and manic. The glint of a knife catches his eye. He can't move. Terror keeps his eyes open and fixed on his belly as the blade slides smoothly, sensually, through his shirt and skin, like a knife through hot butter. The flesh gapes in a grin behind it, red spilling down the slack lips, blooming across his shirt, soaking thick and dark into his jeans. He can see the subtle gleam of organs, parts of himself which should have been hidden suddenly exposed. Agony bubbles up, but he won’t scream. Can’t scream- _don’t scream if you scream he’ll hurtyoucrackyoubreakyou-_

 

A small, strangled noise tries to crawl up his throat as fingers reach into the gash, stroking at the raw edge of the wound. Then they find the junction where skin met muscle and _pull_. The skin comes away with an agonising burn, pale threads of connective tissue slowly giving way under the teasing, coaxing pressure. Like he’s skinning a carcass. Like Sam is just meat.

 

“Five hundred thousand dollars!” The words sound like they’re being bellowed through a loudspeaker, cutting across the agony. “Five hundred thousand dollars for Sam Winchester’s heart! Sold!”

 

Lucifer’s voice is smooth over the rushing filling his ears. _“What do you think about that, Sam? Five hundred thousand? I think it’s barely worth the effort of cracking through your ribs to get at it. Just as well there’s another way, right?”_

 

Lucifer’s long fingers reach in, gently pushing aside his spleen. The breath is squeezed from his heaving lungs as the hand punches up past them, ribs cracking from the strain. He meets Lucifer’s gaze, leaning over him, grinning like they’re sharing a joke as his hand burrows itself into his chest cavity, up to his elbow in Sam’s guts. Sam can feel his heart stutter as those icy fingers close around it. His eyes roll, fixed on nothing.

 

The auctioneer’s voice intrudes again. “Usually we do this part nice and slow, but since Dean is out there, quick and dirty.”

 

He feels the cold of a gun against his temple. He doesn’t care. Let it end. What’s the point, anyway? All these years, all that trying to build something, and he’s still got nothing left. It ends bloody. It ends bad. It always does.

 

_“That’s right, Sam. There’s no hope for you, none left in you at all. Just accept it. You’re already dead on the inside.”_

 

He feels the hand yank, feels the terrible familiar _rip_ as it’s pulled from his chest as the ligaments give way, and he hears the shot and it’s almost _relief_ he feels and he waits for everything to fade…

 

It doesn’t.

 

The man drops and there’s Dean, gun still smoking.

 

He looks around. Lucifer’s gone. His heart is beating wild, his shirt and stomach intact, lungs billowing with relief. The shadows creep reluctantly back to the edges of his vision.

 

As Dean unties him though he catches sight of something on the floor in the corner of his eye. It’s red, about the size of his fist, clenched tight. He doesn’t look.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone give that man a hug, seriously.


End file.
